


Broken

by Severina



Category: Dark Harbor (1998)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because it is always easier to believe the lie. Always easier to take the open path than it is to beat wings against the glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Movie. Written for LJ's hc_bingo February challenge. Prompts: bruises, wings, cursed, restrained.
> 
> * * *

The shade is up on the window closest to the door, and the baby bird bumps repeatedly against the glass.

The young man stands in the middle of the storage shed, hands tucked into the pockets of the hoodie he slipped on when he left David snoring in the bed. Cocks his head and watches as the bird makes a tight circle, trying again to reach the outside world so temptingly near.

The floorboards creak when he takes a step, the chirping of the little bird escalating the closer he gets.

Animals aren't like humans. They know when danger is near.

When he reaches out it is lightning quick, precisely timed. He cups his hand around the bird, brings it closer to his chest. Beady black eyes blink up at him rapidly, pin-prick claws scratching ineffectively at his skin. The little mouth opens and closes, gapes at him. He can feel the flutter of caged wings against his fingers, the brisk thrum of a tiny heart. All in his grasp. His for the taking.

All he'd have to do is close his fist…

"What are you doing?"

The boy loosens his grip, turns easily toward the door. "I found a bird," he says. He frowns as he approaches the other man, slips past him to open his fist and release the creature back into the wild. He watches until it orients itself, flings itself into the sky to live another day. Then he leans against the doorjamb. "You really ought to be more careful, David. It could have died in here."

David is already looking past him, eyes flitting past the old trunks and piles of junk. "Damn things get into the rafters," he says distractedly. "Build their nests, make a mess. I told Alexis to—"

He trails off, and the boy hesitates only momentarily before he pushes off from the door, wraps arms around him from behind. Waits until the tension in David's shoulders eases, until the man relaxes back in his embrace. Then he presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, shifts to brush his lips against David's ear. "I'll take care of it," he says. "Don't I take care of everything?"

It's the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as it leaves his lips, long before David stiffens again and edges out of his arms. Being on the island has thrown him off his game, brought all the memories to the surface. If he closes his eyes he can still see the room as it was: the strewn clothes and wigs, the dust on the window sills, the cans of paint and the aborted art projects, the remnants of a muddled, unfocused life. He can smell the sweet sharp scent of the liquor, the perfume of her hair.

He can still feel the slick, rubbery texture of the mushroom on his fingertips.

In the end, he thinks she knew. She embraced the pain in death, just as she did in life. That was her curse.

Some – the teachers, the psychiatrists and psychologists his parents dragged him to in his youth, with the questions that they thought were so very clever, with their diagnoses taken from archaic books – would say that his curse is that he just doesn't care. The young man prefers to think of it as a blessing.

"I should burn this place down," David says bitterly.

The boy blinks back to the present, schools his face before crossing in front of David to lay hands on his shoulders. "You should make it into something better, something stronger," he says. "Just like you did with me."

For a moment David's gaze is sharp, wary. Then he breathes out, steps close enough to lay their foreheads together. Closes his eyes. Because it is always easier to believe the lie. Always easier to take the open path than it is to beat wings against the glass.

The boy waits a beat, then another; waits until David's arms have encircled his waist before he takes the step to bring their bodies flush together. He cards his fingers through the hair at the nape of David's neck, opens slowly when David presses their lips together. Waits until David's heart is beating rapidly against his chest, until David's cock is pressed thickly against his thigh before he pulls away.

David opens lust-darkened eyes, blinks lazily at him. "Let's go back to bed."

"The bed is too far away," he says.

He takes David's hand and leads him to the cot. Strips unhurriedly, never taking his eyes from David's face. Lies down on his back and takes himself in hand with slow, leisurely strokes. And he swears that he can see the exact moment when the memories of plots and schemes and scattered pieces of poetry written on crumpled paper drop away from David's mind, replaced only by the image of a warm willing body that belongs to him.

He struggles just enough to light the fire in David's eyes, to make him press down harder, to wordlessly convince him to grab his hands, to force him to stay put. Later, David will see the bruises on his wrists and on his hips, will murmur words of apology against his skin.

The young man knows he will press his lips to David's eyelids, will soothe him silently. And when David sleeps, he will slip away to the shower, turn the water temperature up as hot as he can stand it. He will press his fingertip to the thumb-shaped bruise on his hip, gasp at the shadow of pain. He will throw back his head and close his eyes, thrust into his fist, let the images play out on the backs of his eyelids: David's hand encircling his wrists, his muscles straining with the effort to hold him down, his chest red with exertion and his thrusts coming wilder, faster. The flutter of a tiny heartbeat against his palm. Full, moist lips biting into a delicate mushroom.


End file.
